


So Far Under

by zsomeone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, Flashbacks, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, he just doesn’t know he’s on the wrong side, the Winter Soldier is not an automaton, yeah sorry about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-03-07 16:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zsomeone/pseuds/zsomeone
Summary: The creation and life of the Winter Soldier, from his fall from the train through some of his missions and adventures over the decades.Why break the body when it's so much more effective to warp the mind instead?The most convincing lies contain a whole lot of truth, and truth can be twisted to fit the situation.  When your ability to tell what's true has been destroyed, you have no choice but to believe what you're told.  What's worse than being forced to obey?  Believing in what you're doing.Some "continuity errors" throughout this are intentional, as his version of things changes over time.





	1. The Process has Already Begun

**Author's Note:**

> True brainwashing doesn't exist, but a combination of electroconvulsive therapy and anti-psychotics would produce the effects he shows. And by treating his memories as something like schizophrenia, they have him coming to them when he needs more medication to make it stop. See, _they take such good care of him._ And yeah, false memories are a thing. (And yes, all this stuff was around back then, even for regular doctors.)
> 
> The dialog is often not in English although that's how I'm writing it. He knows several languages, so he just understands what is said to him and isn't thinking about which language it's in.  
> He'll mostly only be referred to as "Soldier" here. Not using names is a security thing, sure.
> 
> This starts right after he’s recovered, then skips about a decade, not that he’s aware of that.  
> In the comics, Bucky was put in cryostasis until 1954, when he was thawed and given his arm. Since the MCU doesn't have a clear time line, I'll go with that. And although Zola is still the primary operative, he's mostly behind the scenes here.

Pain and cold.  
He couldn’t move, couldn’t tell how much damage there was.  
Couldn’t see anything but white.  
Shouldn’t be alive.

Footsteps, a man in a hat.  
Sliding, being dragged. Where?  
Blood on the snow, leaving a trail.  
He closes his eyes.

Transport, vehicle moving, still so cold... Steve?  
Fading in and out, can’t open his eyes anymore.  
Voices, can’t make out any words, fading.  
Is this what dying...

Jostled, moving again.  
Stopped, someone cutting his clothes off.  
Bright lights. Struggling, he manages to open his eyes a fraction.  
Doctors. Saved?

His arm is gone.  
He tries to hold on as the doctors close in.  
They begin working, and he finally passes out from the cold, pain, and blood loss.

The cold remains.

*****

Hydra Base, 1954

Waking was like being held underwater, heavy and distorted.  
He was aware of lights, bright lights, and voices, but it was all out of reach.  
Fragments of memory came flowing back.

Disconnected, vague. Sedated, drugged, unreal.  
He tired harder to focus, _tried_ to remember, to remember anything.  
Fighting to wake all the way up, he _had_ to.

 _Falling_...  
No, earlier. _Steve_ , the train! They were on a train.  
The shield he'd picked up, the shield that had both saved him and killed him.

Reaching, feeling the damaged metal bar creaking and shifting under his weight, barely holding.  
Steve, just out of reach, reaching for him.  
Then snapping, falling. Falling forever into deep white cold.

He can't remember hitting the ground, that's probably a good thing.  
Some time later, being moved, being dragged. Cold and snow and blood. Looking up, a man in a hat? So cold...  
Had Steve found him, had he been saved, was he in a hospital? Was...

The trail of blood as he was dragged, red on the white, his left sleeve was torn in half. His arm...  
His arm!  
He fought harder, trying to reach the surface, reach the light. Wake up!

Bucky finally managed to open his eyes, to the blinding glare of the overhead lights. People were scattered around the edges of his vison, still blurry and unfocused.  
His arm! There was something across his chest, restraining him, but his arms were free.  
He raised his hands, both of them, _one of them was not his own._ The left was now metal, but articulated and moving like flesh.

A man in a white coat came to his side, checking something that Bucky couldn't see, making a note on a chart.  
Not a man he knew. A doctor?  
Then another man leaned closer, peering at him. A man he recognized and had _never_ wanted to see again, Zola! "The procedure has already started," Zola told him. "You are to be the new face of Hydra."

 _FUCK_ HYDRA!  
No no no no no no...  
But Zola was out of reach, so he grabbed the closest man with his new metal hand, so strong, choking him.

He _wasn't_ saved, wasn't saved at all! And the mission must have failed, if Zola was here.  
What had happened to Steve, was he okay? Was he coming again, to save him again? Steve was big now...  
The other people, converging on him, pinning him down. They injected something, and everything slipped quickly back under the surface of his mind, deep down into darkness again.

*****

The next time he woke, the lights were gone, the room was different. But he was still strapped to a table. He could feel the constriction of the bandages wrapped around him, and his left arm was wrapped tight against his body. Bands crossed him, keeping him immobile, so tight he couldn't draw a full breath.  
He tried to raise his right hand, but it too was fastened down, strained against the bonds but they were too strong, or he was too weak.  
He could move his head though, so he craned his neck to look around as much as his limited position allowed.

A machine, just behind him and to the side, was all too familiar. He remembered that from when he'd been captured before, remembered the pain.  
His head was clear, for now. They hadn't done anything yet, this time. Was Steve coming again? He'd find him, right? He _had_ to....  
He just had to hold on until he was rescued, keep himself. One more time.

He didn't have to wait long before he had company.  
The door opened and _fucking Zola_ came in alone, carrying a chart and a stack of newspapers. "Hello, Sargent Barnes," the hated doctor addressed him, "This is the last time you'll see me in person, since my presence clearly upsets you. But there are some things I think you should be made aware of before we get started."  
Bucky strained against his bonds again, even though he already knew it was futile. Zola just waited him out.

"First, no one is looking for you, you were reported killed in action when you fell from my train."  
Bucky fought to keep his expression blank, Steve would never believe that, Steve would be looking for him, and the others, the Commandos, would follow.  
"You give away far more than you realize," the man taunted him, "I see your hope. You've been here for quite some time already. Captain America is dead, no one is coming for you, no one is even looking. You belong to us now, to Hydra. But if it makes you feel better, your last mission was successful, I was captured. But Hydra is everywhere, so it was merely an inconvenience."

Steve couldn't be dead! Zola was lying, trying to break him! It _had_ to be lies!  
"It made the news all over the world, briefly anyway, before other things became more important. I brought you the papers. You can read them, correct?" He held up the papers, one at a time.  
Bucky couldn't read all of them, but the meaning was still clear, Steve was gone. They could have faked a couple papers, but not _that_ many, it had to somehow be true. But why did the papers look so old?

And a few others with the tales of his own "death", confirming that no rescue would be forthcoming. They think he died, it would have been far better if he'd actually died. Now Hydra had him again, and he had no real hope of escaping them this time.  
Steve was dead. _He_ was dead, or at least as far as everyone else was concerned.  
How long could he possibly last, trapped in this new world where even hope was no longer an option?

"Sargent Barnes, this is the last time anyone will call you by name. You will be only our Asset, the Soldier, from now on. We have such hopes for you, what you do will change the world. Now respect your Doctors and your Handler."  
If looks could kill Zola would be dead, but unfortunately that was only wishful thinking.  
"Goodbye, Soldier. Your treatment resumes now."

Zola left the room, and shortly after, a man in a white coat entered. "Hello, Soldier, I am the Doctor. Let's get started."  
He watched as the Doctor picked up a loaded syringe from a side table, and injected it into his immobile right arm. The burning pain was instant, and spreading quickly as his agitated heart rate pushed it further through his body, the pain he remembered from his previous capture. They were trying to make him like Steve, he remembered that much, but it hadn't worked. Or maybe they just hadn't finished? It was hard to think, with the burning flowing through his body.

Another injection, this is new. The Doctor had left the needle in his vein, removing one syringe and attaching another, pushing yet another drug into him.  
The burn fades, blurred by the new drugs. His strength fades as well, not that it was doing him any good, securely strapped as he is.  
And then, _the machine._ Fitted to his face.

He's breathing as hard as he can through the constricting straps, knowing what's coming, remembering the pain.  
The pain comes and his whole body strains against it, his left shoulder feeling literally on fire, teeth clenched tight. Helpless to do anything, he can only endure.  
Eventually, he has no idea how long it's been, it stops. And he's left where he lays, strapped immobile and fighting back tears.

*****

The Doctor is back, a nurse or assistant with him. "Good morning, Soldier."  
"What day is it?" He needed to know, needed to try to keep track of the passage of time somehow.  
"It's Tuesday, now shall we get started? We have a lot of ground to make back up before you're back on the regular team."

Regular team? They didn't have the rest of the Commandos, did they?! Surely not... but a lot of time has passed, and he had no idea what all might have taken place.  
Zola would have said that though, the fucking sadist. They weren't here. He didn't know what “regular team” was supposed to mean.  
There are more injections today, and more of the machine.

It happens again and again, the same blinding pain that he remembered from his first capture, from the other more recent day. Days? He’s not sure. The Doctor's assistant, observing his reactions and taking notes. They've also given him a mouth guard, and he's nearly bitten through it.  
They're using it pulses now, and they keep repeating the same meaningless words. Why?  
"These words are important, you need to remember them. Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight Car." Each word is accompanied by a sharp jolting shock. "Are you ready to comply?" _Again and again._

He fights anyway, the best he's able between the pulses, reverting to his training, "Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight. Barnes, James-" The words are badly muffled by the mouth guard and probably unintelligible, but he keeps repeating them anyway.  
"Please stop repeating that."  
He does _not_ stop repeating it, holding fast to the battered shreds of his identity.

It continues, on and on. He stops trying to speak, hoping that will make them stop, but they show no inclination to do so.  
Every pulse cuts through his left shoulder like a knife. It's too hard to think, hard to even _breathe_. He'd be screaming now if he could draw enough air.  
He's lost count of how many times they've repeated the same words, words and pain, what result are they hoping for?

There is a pause as the Doctor examined him, "He's still not responding. Up the dosage again, double it."  
"But-" the assistant sounds concerned.  
"We know he's different now, we were told to expect this. We'll start by doubling it. We were informed this would probably be an issue."

He's given yet another shot, making everything blurry and harder to focus. Maybe it's the drug, maybe he's just exhausted from the pain, he can't tell.  
It continues, through several more cycles. The same words, pain, and question, again and again.  
Finally they stop, and he passes out.

*****

Bucky woke sill strapped to a table, and managed to lift his head.  
Same room, machine waiting. Someone had run an IV to his right arm. The left was in a sling of sorts, swathed in bandages up to and around his chest and shoulder. A lot of blood had soaked through, staining his shoulder and chest, and it ached badly.  
He remembered something was wrong, but not what had happened. At least it was being cared for?

The Doctor entered the room, followed by the same assistant as before. "Good morning, Soldier."  
"What day is it?"  
"Today is Wednesday. Are you ready to get started?" He presented the mouth guard while the nurse did something with his IV port.

Bucky didn't respond, just started repeating his info in his head, _"Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight..._  
The put the machine back in position and started again, the words and the pain.  
_...three-two-five-five-seven..._

A pause while the doctor considered him, "He's a very tough case, triple it."  
The nurse injected more of whatever they were giving him, not the one that burned, the other kind.  
Then the words again, those damned words, with a shock to accompany each. He lost count of how many more times. He lost track of most everything.

*****

The Doctor is a woman. Maybe the Doctor has always been a woman, he's not sure. She sees that he's awake and comes to his side, "Relax, Soldier, you're safe. You've been through an ordeal but we're taking good care of you." She has bandaging supplies, and scissors.  
"What day is it?"  
"Today is Friday, " she informs him.

He frowned, that didn't seem right.  
The Doctor noticed his confusion, "What day did you think it was?"  
He tried hard to think... "Tuesday?"

She nodded, and began cutting the bandages off his shoulder. "You don't remember the last three days?"  
He shook his head in confusion, how could he lose entire days? "Was I... awake?"  
"Yes, we've done therapy every day." He tries to lift his head but she stops him with a gentle hand on his forehead, "Lie still and let me change this."

"What... happened to me?" He can feel her wiping his shoulder, and smell the sharp scent of the disinfectant.  
"You were captured and held for a while, then rescued. We're not sure what all they did to you, but we're taking good care of you now." She was done with her ministrations, and patted his other shoulder reassuringly.  
He looked down, but there was nothing to see, she'd wrapped him back up thoroughly.

"What's wrong with my mind, why am I missing days?"  
"A combination of Battle Fatigue and we’ve found evidence of torture. What few files that were recovered with you indicate they were experimenting on you, trying to implant false memories. Have you suffered any hallucinations, that you're aware of?"  
"Not... that I'm aware of?" Everything did feel unreal, but it was all unfamiliar so how was he supposed to know what was right?

"Well you just concentrate on getting better. Someone will be in to continue your therapy shortly." She turned to go.  
"Wait!" She paused, looking back at him. "What day is it?"  
"It's Friday, I already told you that. I'll see you tomorrow, Soldier." And she was gone.

*****

A Doctor entered, had he met this one before? He didn't know. "Good afternoon, Soldier. We have something new for you today."  
He couldn’t shake the confusion, couldn’t clear his head. He was seated, somewhat restrained, in a chair. His left arm was wrapped snug to his body and a thick leather band crossed both his chest and that arm, but his right arm was free. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday, not that it matters.”  
Of course it mattered! But what if he should be asking what week instead of what day? Or even what month... or year? How much time was he missing, how big were those holes? And what happened in between?  
He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to that.

The Doctor pulled a cube of some sort out of his bag.  
“Is this even a good idea?” the accompanying nurse asked in a worried voice.  
Doctor silenced him with a disapproving glare, “All the progress we’ve made so far will be useless if he’s incapable of retaining instruction and working independently. Do not question me, you are very replaceable.”  
The nurse nodded, and went to stand by the door. 

“I have a test for you. This time you will receive instruction, next time you’ll be expected to do this on your own. Do you understand?”  
“Yes.”  
“This is a simple puzzle box, you’ll be able to solve it one-handed. Your task is to figure out how to open it. Inside you will find two metal discs, one blue and one red. You are then to insert the blue one into the slot on the top of the box, and the red one into the slot in the front of the base. Do you understand your task?”

He nodded, and the cube was placed in his hand. It was made of wood with metal trim, and he could feel that some of the parts moved as he turned it, examining it. He set it on his lap and tried to sort it out, sliding bits one way and another to see how it fit together.  
It was fairly simple, as promised. The box itself didn’t open but a drawer in the middle did revealing the colored discs. He placed them as instructed, then handed it back. How they would get them back out wasn’t his problem, but it probably opened some other way too.

The Doctor accepted it and put it back in his bag, motioning for the nurse who approached and strapped his right arm firmly down to the arm of the chair.  
What was this? He’d thought they were done!  
But the nurse was pushing the machine closer, while the Doctor stood watching.

No shots anymore? Was that better or worse?  
They gave him the mouth guard, which he accepted without a fight, and fitted the machine.  
The machine didn’t pulse this time, it was a steady blinding pain and the Soldier screamed until everything went black and faded away.

*****

He finds himself in a chair, in a room alone. It’s a small room, there’s nothing else but a table, and some sort of machine that worries him although he’s not sure why.  
His left arm was in a sling of sorts, wrapped to his torso, and felt hot, itchy, and sore. Before he could try to work out what was wrong, the door opened and a Doctor came in, carrying a small bag.  
“Hello, Soldier. How are you feeling today?”

“My arm?”  
“Is it bothering you? I assure you it’s healing well.”  
That didn’t answer the question, but he didn’t press. Soldier? Right, he’s a soldier, the Soldier.

The Doctor reached into the bag and pulled out a wooden cube, handing it over, “I believe you know what to do with this?”  
Somehow, he did. He had no idea _how_ he knew, but he opened the box relatively quickly and placed the contents where they were supposed to go. “How do I know this?”  
“It’s only important that you do know, and you completed your task.”

He turns it in his hand, confused, trying to remember, but there’s nothing there. But he did well?  
The Doctor takes the cube back, then wheels the machine closer, “Please sit back, this won’t take long. We need to do this one more time, and then you can go to your room.”  
The Soldier obeys, and something is fitted to is face.  
The machine _hurts_.


	2. Process Complete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering about the lack of flashbacks and stuff so far, he’s been very heavily medicated up to this point. Now they have to leave him alone for a while to let him finish healing before they put him back in cyro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me [this](http://cdn.playbuzz.com/cdn/44ca72db-46e4-42ed-8172-18daa0265258/f13dd838-ff23-48b9-b916-de407d0dfde3.jpg) doesn't look like self-inflicted claw marks, no way that's not intentional. (if pic doesn't work for you, chair scene in CA:TWS)

Hydra Base, 1954

He woke up slowly, confused. He was in a small room, lying on a bed. A hospital bed? He had no idea how he'd gotten there, or where he even was. Why couldn’t he remember?  
He sat up carefully, attention immediately drawn to his left arm. Or what had been his left arm? It was metal.  
He moved it experimentally, bending the elbow and making a fist. It flexed smoothly, naturally.

His arm...  
He couldn't tell if his real arm was still there or not. It might be, under that metal. The metal one moved like just like his other one, but all he could feel was a disconnected pain. That wasn't proof, he knew that people often reported still being able to feel limbs they no longer had.  
How did he have this, how could he have no memory of it?! What had happened to him?!

Bandages were wrapped around his shoulder and upper chest, hiding where the metal ended, crusted and stiff. Clear fluid had drained from under them, too much to be contained, leaving tacky trails down his shirtless torso. From the smell, sharp but not rancid, it hadn't been changed yet today, or maybe a couple days.  
Underneath, there was steady dull pain, and a deep _itch_ that seemed to go all the way to the bone.

The itch was maddening, impossible to ignore, taking over everything. He _had_ to ease it somehow. Finding the tucked edge, he started to unwind the bandages. They were stuck to his skin in places, pulling, making the pain sharper as he kept unwinding, not yet looking.   
He didn't want to look, but he had to see. Exposed to the air, his shoulder stung with raw nerves.  
Taking a deep breath, he looked.

The metal came all the way up over his shoulder, and onto his upper chest. Feeling his back, it seemed to be about the same as the front. The metal dug into his skin, tight, so tight. The skin was red and raised, very puffy and irritated in places where the metal edges had nearly cut through.  
It looked more healed than the condition of the bandages had led him to believe, this wasn't fresh at all but mostly healed already, scarring at the seams.  
Maybe he was wrong about the time... but why didn’t he remember?

He knocked on the metal covering his shoulder, trying to judge how much of him might be left underneath it. He couldn't tell, but that made the itch flare again. He pounded on the metal with his open hand, sending bright jolts of pain through his shoulder, but that did nothing at all to ease the itching. If he could only get under it...  
He dug at the seam, trying to fit his fingers under, trying to scratch. Blood trickled from the reopened areas he was abusing, but even the pain didn't stop the itching, didn't deter him.  
He dug his nails into his chest, scratching what he could since he couldn't scratch what he needed, tearing gouges into his own skin, _he couldn't stop_.

They rushed the room, these men. Grabbing his arms, restraining him, injecting him, sedating him.   
He tried to pull free, but whatever they gave him was really strong and fast acting, and he couldn’t fight it. What would they do to him now?  
The drugs won, and everything slid into black.

*****

He woke to new bandages, but smaller ones. He remembered the itch, the scratching. His chest wasn't wrapped anymore, just a large pad taped where he'd scratched. For the first time, he noticed the red star on his shoulder.  
He checked, the nails of his right hand had been cut very short. They didn't want him to be able to do that again. But the itch was much fainter, they must have given him something to help with it. Good.  
He sat up, noting that it was the same room as before, same crack partway up one wall. His room?

There was a soft knock at the door, and a man in uniform entered without waiting for a response. He moved a chair closer to the bed and sat down. "Hello Soldier, I hope you're feeling better now."  
The man was unfamiliar. "Who are you?"  
"I'm your Handler. You've been through a lot and we're giving you time to recover before you resume your missions, but I wanted to make sure you're okay."

Was he okay? He had no idea. "I can't remember... stuff I should remember? Like this arm," he held it up, not quite able to think of it as a part of him, "How can I not remember something like this? Or was it always like this? I'm not even sure where we are right now."  
The Handler nodded, "I'm sure this is all very confusing for you. I'll try to answer as many of your questions as I can, though I don't have access to your full file."

"What... what is my name?"  
"I don't know. I'm sorry, you're a high ranking specialist and the less people who know about you the better, we've all been instructed to only refer to you as the Soldier."  
"Why don't _I_ know my own name? I should know."

The Handler gave him a sympathetic look. "This is not going to be easy to hear, but you deserve to know. When we rescued you there was evidence of torture, what they did to your arm, and some sort of brainwashing. You had drugs in your system that we couldn't even identify. You were violent, so we had to keep you sedated for a while."  
“Did I hurt anyone?"  
"No one important. As far was we can tell, they tried to implant you with false memories, to turn you against us. In the process, they hampered your ability to remember things."

"So now what, I'm being retired? Is that what you meant by time off?"  
"No, you're too important, the very best in your field. And we've managed to work out which medications work best for you, when you start experiencing problems."  
"Problems?"

"Do you know what schizophrenia is, Soldier?"  
He frowned, trying to think, the word seemed familiar, "Is that the thing where people hear voices?"  
"Yes, although some also see things, or your other senses may be involved as well. There's been great leaps in understanding the mind, but we still have so much to learn."

"What's this have to do with me?"  
"Well, whatever they did to you seems to at least mimic those symptoms. But don't worry, the medication clears them right up. It's best if you alert us as quickly as possible when you are experiencing symptoms, so that was can make them stop.”  
He sighed, lacing his fingers, flesh and metal, together in his lap without thinking about it. "Can't be too useful if I'm crazy."

"I repeat, your problem is entirely manageable. And you are invaluable, our greatest asset. With your help, we will make this world what it needs to be."  
He just nodded, it was a relief to know he was still useful.  
The man, the _Handler_ smiled reassuringly.

The Soldier pointed, curious, "That symbol on your coat, what's it mean?"  
"This?" He fingered the pin on his shirt, "It's the symbol of Hydra, that's who we work for."  
"You're kidding me right?" The Handler did not look like he was kidding. "A hydra is a dragon with a bunch of heads, not... _that_."

The Handler visibly relaxed, "The man who designed it was very fond of skulls, and did not take criticism well."  
The Soldier snorted, "Well I'm glad nobody painted that thing on me, a star is better than your dead octopus."  
"I must advise you to not speak badly of it to the others, they are very loyal."

"It's quiet down here." He changed the subject, and saw the man's surprised look, "I'm pretty sure we're underground, am I wrong?"  
"No, most of this base is indeed underground.”  
So, buried alive, in a way. Or safe?

“Why am I worth all this? Why not just retire me?”  
"Because you are our greatest weapon."  
"You mean I used to be," he held up the metal arm, "Probably useless now."

"Put your hand behind your back." When the Soldier moved the metal one, he stopped him, "No, your other hand."  
Confused, he complied.  
"Catch." The Handler pulled a small apple from his pocket and tossed it, which he reflexively grabbed out if the air with his metal hand.

He opened his hand in amazement, it really had moved just like a real one. The apple wasn't even bruised. "Can I eat this?" He switched it to his right hand, the metal one bothered him even if it seemed fully functional, and the plates that it was composed of shifted and clicked softly.  
"Of course. You like apples? We'll keep some here for you, when we have them. Is there anything else you'd like to have?"

He considered, "A television?"  
"I'm afraid we can't provide that."  
"A radio then?"

"There's no reception down here, but I think we can find a portable record player, if that would do. Several people here have a modest collection, I’m sure I could borrow some for you. What types of music do you prefer?"  
He should know this? But he didn’t, "I don't remember. Just bring whatever, I'll try it all."  
“I’ll see what I can do,” the man got up top leave, “In the meantime, get comfortable here. You have a private bathroom through that door, and we can bring you more furniture if you’d like.”

The Soldier waited until the man was gone, then got up to explore his room. There wasn’t much to see, aside from the bed there was a table and a chair, and a small wardrobe. The wardrobe contained some basic clothing that appeared to be in his size, simple shirts and pants like the ones he was currently wearing, though he didn’t remember dressing himself. His shoulder was healed enough for shirts now, probably.  
The bathroom was very simple, a sink, toilet, and shower. There were soap, shampoo, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a hair brush. No mirror. Some towels on a shelf.

Was he locked in? Probably. But then, why would he be?  
He tried to main door, and was a bit surprised when it opened into a larger area that seemed to be currently deserted. Taking the unlocked door as permission, he continued exploring.  
There were a table and more chairs in here, and a small kitchen type area along one wall, he headed there first.

A sink, open shelves, and some food. He took stock.  
There were basic things like fruit and bread. Some canned goods. A couple bowls, a few utensils, and a toaster. He could make his own food if he wanted, or he could probably just have something brought from wherever the main kitchen was. A place like this always had a main cooking area, but access to private food was a privilege.  
He resumed his tour.

In the corner there was a machine, which he hesitantly approached.  
On closer inspection it appeared to be some sort of muscle building equipment, but unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Bricks of metal, built into the machine, with heavy pins that could be moved. Some sort of exercise machine? He wasn’t sure he was allowed to try it, but he was pretty sure that his shoulder wasn’t up for that yet anyway, just moving it much made the edges pinch harshly into his irritated flesh.

In the other corner was something else, a metal cylinder that had some sort of window in it. He couldn’t figure out what it might be used for. Closer inspection showed it to be empty, but some hoses and things ran from it out through the wall.  
Maybe it was just something stored there?

*****

The Handler gave him a jar of cream for his shoulder, to use whenever it was bothering him. He had no idea what was in it, but the relief it gave was blissful. It was healing well, the marks he’d dug were already scarred over and the swelling was mostly gone.  
He’d gotten permission to try the machine, it had been easy to figure out, and had been using it some. He needed to be ready to go back in the field, after all. He was aware he was gaining muscle, getting stronger. 

His mind wandered more, since there was little to do. He’d asked for books but had been denied that request. They had granted him a deck of cards though, so he sat at his table and played solitaire when bored. It was hard to shuffle with the metal fingers, they slipped.  
Some of the things in his head though, they weren’t real and he knew it. They’d said to report symptoms, but he held off, wondering _why_ he even had these thoughts but not wanting to give them up just yet.

Like the flying car, how could he “remember” a flying car when no such thing existed? A red car, and a girl’s smile. He couldn’t even picture the rest of her face, just her smile, who was she? Anyone important? Was he married, had he been?  
He couldn’t even check for a ring or the evidence of one, since he no longer had a left hand. Was the girl even real? He didn’t know.  
Hell, he didn’t even remember his own damn name, of course he didn’t remember her.

The other thing though, the floating face, he didn’t like that one. He’d even taken to sleeping only on his right side, which put him facing the wall, which he disliked, but sleeping on the left wasn’t an option and lying on his back made the face come.  
A round face with round glasses, who was that man, why did the very image fill him with deep dread?  
He knew should ask for his medicine, but he wanted to be able to deal without it if he could, didn’t want to need it.

Lying on his right side made the metal on his chest dig in painfully, once asleep he was unconsciously rolling onto his back to relieve it, then jolting awake in a in a state of mild panic, even if he’d woken too quickly for the face to appear.  
He’d tried sleeping on his stomach instead, but apparently he just wasn’t one of the people who could sleep that way.  
All he wanted to do was to be able to _sleep_ , there had to be a better way!

Someone brought a meal three times a day, though the contents varied. He ate what he was given, if he’d ever had any strong preferences regarding food he no longer remembered them.  
Mostly he just ate what they brought him, but sometimes he got hungry at odd hours and fended for himself instead. It was nice to have that option.

His Handler brought a record player, as promised. The albums he brought with it were unfamiliar, but pretty much everything was to him. One by one, he played them all in their entirety. Music helped the boredom, but didn’t help the hallucinations.  
A blond boy, a dark haired girl, bother, sister, friends? He didn’t know. The boy was sick? Someone should help him... But he wasn’t real, of course. None of it was real.  
But lacking any actual memories of his own, he’d take the false ones.

*****

His handler knocked and came in, "If you feel up to it, I'd like to take you to the shooting range. The doctors say you're healed enough now."  
That sounded good, "Yeah, I'd like to try. I can shoot with either hand, but this... metal one might make a difference. I want to know. I _need_ to know."  
"And so do we, shall we go?"

Together they made their way through the facility, taking an elevator down to a deeper level. The Soldier was apprehensive, "I don't remember a lot of things, what if I don't remember how to shoot like I used to?"  
"Muscle memory is different from regular memory. You'll be able to shoot, the same way you're able to walk and tie your shoes."  
He hoped his Handler was right.

The shooting range was deep underground, a long space with a back wall that was unobstructed dirt, good for stopping bullets. Wooden frames for hanging targets stood waiting along both walls. A few guns were laid out on a table. A somewhat twitchy little balding man was waiting for them.  
"This is the Gun Master, you will listen to him while you're here. He'll set and retrieve targets for you. Please shoot each of the presented guns, with _both_ hands. I'll be waiting just outside," his Handler instructed.

The Soldier assessed the weapons, a pistol, a rifle, and a machine gun. Pretty basic, though the actual models seemed unfamiliar. No matter, a gun was a gun and it seemed that he was comfortable with guns. Good to know.  
This wasn’t a long range, this would be easy. Unless the arm was an issue?  
He decided to start with the pistol.

He shot half the clip right-handed, his aim was dead on, which pleased him, then transferred it to the metal hand.  
Metal on the hard grip made for an imprecise feel, the gun wanted to slip. He awkwardly tightened his fingers, a little too much and accidently squeezed off a shot that went very wide. The Gun Master flinched but held his ground.  
“You’re thinking too much. Ignore your arm and focus on the target.”

It was hard! The lights reflected off the shiny arm extended in front of him, how was he supposed to just ignore that? But he had to try.  
With difficulty, the Soldier managed to focus on the target instead, trying to pretend the arm was his real one, that it would work the same. He couldn’t feel the trigger weight, there wasn’t enough sensitivity, and that distracted him too.  
At least no one was rushing him.

He needed to keep his arm as still as possible when he fired and hope for the best.  
Taking a deep breath and holding it, the Soldier fired the rest of the shots in quick succession. Every one hit the target, and although his cluster wasn’t as tight, he was reasonably satisfied with the results. He’d have to get the feel for shooting with this arm, that would take more practice, but it seemed his aim in general was very good.  
The Gun Master replaced the targets and moved back out of the way, waiting.

The other guns, which took both hands, would be far easier. He chose the machine gun next, starting right-handed again, this time so he could make sure to release the trigger before expending the entire clip. They’d only given him one, clearly that was part of the test too.  
Raising it, he let off a short burst, then switched hands, finishing the clip. The centers of both targets were obliterated.  
The metal hand wasn’t hampering him at all with this one, that was good to know.

The Gun Master removed the targets, but instead of hanging more, lined up a row of six bullet casings along the top of the frame, “Let’s see if you can hit all of these.” He laid six bullets beside the rifle.  
A bit of a challenge, good. He loaded the rifle, his hands knowing how to do it automatically, and raised it, going with the right hand first again. That seemed to be his preferred shooting hand, if how natural it all felt was any indication, though he was clearly competent with either.

He knelt, bracing his elbow on his raised knee, and took aim. There wasn’t enough distance to make this a true challenge, even without a scope he had no trouble taking out the ones he aimed for, every other casing.  
He shifted, mirroring his pervious position to use the other hand. He took his time, lining up the first shot, then pulled the trigger.  
He was off and he knew it, but luckily still pinged the very top of the casing, knocking it down. Good enough for anyone else, not good enough for him. The next two he managed to hit dead center, to his satisfaction.

The Soldier stood, satisfied, and put the gun back on the table. His skills were intact, even with this new arm, that was reassuring. He wasn’t useless now after all, even if his head wasn’t quite right these days. But he was coping with that, or at least trying to.  
His Handler motioned for him to follow, and they made their way back up together, “This was just a quick test, we’ll have you practice with a wide variety of weapons in the future.”  
It was something to look forward to.

*****

Sleep was still a problem, one he hadn’t been able to solve and still refused to ask for help with. Since nobody was keeping him to any sort of regular hours, he’d taken to staying awake until completely exhausted, and using the exercise machine to wear himself out further. Then, at least for a few hours, he would sleep and sleep hard. This wasn’t a sustainable plan, but it worked for the moment.  
But maybe, if he could sleep sitting, that would be better? Would they give him a chair? He decided to try.

The next time his Handler came, he brought it up, “You said I could ask for things?”  
“Within reason, yes,” the man nodded, “What would you like?”  
“A chair, the kind that reclines?”  
“We actually have some of those on another level, I’ll have one brought down for you.”

Not long after, a man showed up carrying a chair, putting it in his room and then leaving.  
The Soldier inspected the chair. It was pretty ugly, as far as chairs went, upholstered in a sickly green color.  
He sat in it experimentally, it was also a rocker. Something about it bothered him, another of those memories-not-memories, but he pushed that away. It was just a chair.  
It was just a chair, why did it make him feel this way?

Late that night he tried to sleep in it, after his usual routine of making sure he was as tired as possible. It seemed to be working, he was tired enough that reclining the chair felt comfortable, a relief. Not like the unsettling feelings from earlier. The metal on his chest and back sat as comfortably as was possible, not really pinching or pulling.  
With a relieved sigh, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

_He was strapped down, thrashing against his bonds, blinding pain ripped through him. A voice, words he couldn’t make out, repeating the same sounds over and over while he tried to beg them to stop, just stop!  
Steve! Then he was falling, and there was no bottom._  
He woke suddenly, on the floor, curled upon himself. Who the hell was Steve? That name meant nothing to him, but he was done sleeping for the night.

Picking himself up off the floor, he moved the chair into the other room, he didn’t want it anymore. It made everything worse, not better.  
He couldn’t keep doing this, he’d have to take the medication, anything to make this _stop_. He’d ask in the morning.  
Until then, he put on a random record and sat on his bed, staring at the opposite wall and trying to forget.

*****

The Doctor came when requested, very worried to hear that he had been ignoring his symptoms, “Here’s your medication, it might not be enough if you’ve let things go too far, but let’s start here. You really need to be more proactive about these things.”  
He took the offered pills, “I know, I’m sorry.” He had no clue what the Doctor meant by “might not be enough,” but didn’t ask.  
“Please let me know if you experience further issues,” he said as he left.

The day seemed to go better? His mind seemed clearer at least. Or emptier. Either was an improvement.  
His Handler took him down for more shooting, after making sure he was up to it, and he got to use different guns this time. It didn’t matter what type of gun they gave him, his aim was very good. The metal hand was still a bit of an issue with a pistol, but he thought he was adapting fairly fast. Eventually, maybe soon, it would feel no different than his flesh and blood one.  
He was starting to think of it as _his_ hand.

What if he wore gloves? “Do either of you have any gloves I can borrow? Just to try?”  
Indeed the Gun Master did, producing a pair of black leather gloves and offering them to the Soldier, who put one on his left hand. It was a little small but he got it on and flexed his fingers experimentally. He was afraid he’d destroy it if he tried to actually make a fist, too tight to effectively shoot in. Disappointed, he took it off with a sigh, maybe some other day then.

The Gun Master had been watching, “Wait, let’s try something.” He brought out a pocket knife and took the glove, slicing off the top half of the fingers, “This is an old pair, I have more. Here, see if that’s better.”  
It was, having his fingers free let him flex his hand fully. He picked up the pistol and was pleased that he’d been correct, the leather gave him a much more secure grip. He shot a full clip, and was happy with how tight the grouping was. He was good enough without a glove but better with one, at least with a pistol, he didn’t need it for the longer guns.

Then he was handed a set of knives, and was surprised to discover he was really good at throwing them. Clearly this was something he’d done before, but he had no memories at all on how he might have acquired the skill. “How do I know how to do this?”  
His Handler shrugged, “Muscle memory is not like regular memory, the body knows more than the mind. Hey I don’t really understand it either, you should ask the Doctor if you want to know more.”

They went through more weapons, pretty much everything that was on hand, and the Soldier was proud that he was at least reasonably proficient with anything and everything they put in his hands. What he’d been told about being their best, he was starting to actually believe it.  
Maybe he didn’t need to remember, clearly the skills were there whether he knew their origin or not.

*****

Later, back in his room, he kept thinking about what his handler had said, that his body remembered more. His brain sure as hell didn’t remember much, but maybe that was why he couldn’t sleep? If so, could he work around it? It was worth experimenting with, couldn’t hurt to try.  
He considered the bed, but worried that his ongoing issues might influence his results and chose to lie on the floor instead. It was bare, cool, and seemed to be reasonably clean.

He lay on his back, he wasn’t trying to sleep, just planning to pay attention to whatever feelings emerged. Just lying like this made him feel apprehensive. He tried putting his hands behind his head, but that was uncomfortable for his left shoulder so he put that one back down loosely. This position bothered him less. Leaving the right arm raised, he shifted to sprawl out more.  
Better, actually comfortable, but maybe it was just because he was fully awake? One way to find out, he moved again, feet together and both arms close to his sides.

_That_ was bad, a wave of sick dread instantly washed over him. He wanted to move but resisted, closing his eyes and trying to work out the feelings. What had happened to him, what did his body remember?  
They said he’d been captured and tortured, most likely he’d been held in this position. He could ask, but they might not even know the details.  
 _Maybe he’d been strapped to a table... somewhere?_

That was enough, he threw his limbs out in a sprawl, and the feeling faded mostly away. He understood now, why it had been getting worse. The more apprehensive he’d become about how he slept, the tighter and straighter he’d held himself, which was the opposite of helping. Now that he knew, there was at least a chance he could override it  
Or was this a false assumption, brought on by his medication? He _did_ feel a lot better today. Maybe it was the drugs helping, and nothing he himself was doing?  
Well, he would find out when he slept later.

*****

"Soldier! Soldier! Wake up, you're dreaming!"  
The voice woke him, and he saw a man standing in the doorway, well out of reach. He'd turned the overhead light on, and his face was just a face, looking concerned and frightened, "Should I get the Doctor?"  
He nodded, unable to speak, and the man disappeared.

The Soldier sat up on the bed, back against the wall, knees bent and head in his hands. He smelled blood, the knuckles of his right hand were scraped, he must have hit the stone wall in his sleep. The wounds were minor, insignificant.  
Very soon the Doctor arrived, along with his Handler who addressed him, "May we come in?"  
Still not speaking, he nodded and his Handler sat on the bed with him while the Doctor, more wary, took the chair.

"What happened here?" the Doctor prompted.  
He focused on their faces, their very _normal_ faces, glancing between them. Talking took effort, "A... dream? I think? Or... memory?" But it was all fading very fast, aside from that one shocking image that had followed him out of sleep, that terrible face. Or rather, the lack thereof. "No, _not_ a memory, that's not possible." he fisted his metal hand, but relaxed it when he saw the Doctor’s flinch.

The man was a professional though, "A nightmare? Can you tell me about it?"  
"It's just pieces. A man with no skin, just red and bone. But he wasn't dying..."  
"Anything else?"  
"A lot of fire? Or explosions? Someplace dangerous, I can't remember!"

"Was there anyone else there, in this nightmare?"  
Was there? _Was there_? "I don't think so... No, I was alone with the skinned man."  
“Well Soldier, it seems that you need more medication,” he held out a small cup, “Here, take these pills, they should help, and we’ll take you for treatment later. And please don’t wait for things to get to this point in the future, it’s very important that you keep on top of this.”

*****

He hadn’t dared attempt to go back to sleep after that dream, irrationally worried that the skinned man would still be hiding there. Even if he wasn’t, _couldn’t be_ , real.  
He was pacing the floor when his Handler returned, and led him to a different room where the Doctor waited with another cup of pills, which he obediently swallowed.  
His Handler stepped back to wait by the door, not a part of this.

There was a chair, and instinctively knew this chair was why he’d had problems with the one he’d requested. Bad things happened in ths chair, but what bad things? There was no actual memory forthcoming, just a vague sense of dread. Why?  
“Don’t worry, this will fix everything, you’ll be fine,” the Doctor informed him while motioning for him to sit.  
Somehow that wasn’t reassuring, but he obediently sat anyway. They gave him a mouth guard and fitted some sort of machine to his face.

Then everything was pain. Sweeping aside all thoughts and feelings, obliterating them, nothing existed but the pain, his entire body strained against it.  
He was vaguely aware he was screaming, but even that was distant.  
And then everything was gone, fading into blackness.

*****

The Soldier found himself in a room, alone, lying on a bed. He sat up, confused, and tried to take stock. His left shoulder and upper chest ached as if he’d been exerting himself too hard, but he had no memory of that.  
He’d actually _slept_ , how long had he slept? Treatment, there was something about treatment. Whatever it had been, clearly it had worked.

A man, his Handler? Came in and wordlessly presented him with a wooden cube.  
It was a test, he didn’t know how he knew this, but he accepted it and preformed the desired actions without even having to think about it, handing it back.  
Aside from the mild confusion, his mind felt blissfully calm and clear, peaceful.

“Rest a bit more, I’ll come back for you later,” and the man left.  
The Soldier remained seated, looking around his room, yes _his_ room, taking stock. The confusion was slowly fading. His bed, his clothes, his records. Well not _his_ records, but the ones they let him play.  
Deciding he might as well relax as instructed, he lay back down and dozed off. There were no dreams.

*****

His Handler returned sometime later, when he’d been awake for a while and already eaten. “Do you feel up for some sparring? We can’t let your hand to hand skills get too rusty.”  
“Sure,” that actually sounded fun.  
Together they went to a different level, a large open training room of some sort. There was a small group assembled there waiting, three men and a woman. All were dressed in the same sort of clothes he currently wore, soldiers then.

“This is just practice so try not to kill anybody,” his Handler told him, “I want you to mostly defend, but you may throw them or use other more aggressive defensive moves if you like.”  
The Soldier nodded, and the soldiers closed in on him. He let him mind go completely blank and his body take over, automatically blocking and thwarting their moves, pure efficiency.

It was almost like a dance, spinning, anticipating their next moves. The woman leapt onto his shoulders, but he ducked down sharply and managed to throw her off before she could really get her hold.  
They charged again and again, and he ducked, dodged, and knocked them away. The Soldier was impressed with himself, he couldn’t help it. Damn he had some skills, and it felt really good to be using them!  
They kept coming.

A man jumped on his back, locking an arm tight around his throat while another charged from the front. The Soldier pushed back and kicked that man, sending him into the wall, then grabbed the arm with his metal hand and heaved the man over his shoulder, breaking the hold.  
And also the man’s arm, he felt it snap as the body hit the floor.  
“Stop!” his Handler cut in, and he did, stepping back and standing still. The others who were still standing did as well.

The man he’d kicked was still down against the wall, but not unconscious. The other man and the woman were standing and both were bleeding, him from a cut over his eye and her from a split lip. The last one lay at his feet, cradling his injured arm. Fingermark bruises from the metal grip were already forming on his wrist.  
The Soldier was unharmed. He’d been so proud of how well how well he’d been doing, but pride had given way to worry and shame. He hadn’t meant for that to happen!

“Okay we’re done here, and go get that arm seen to,” his Handler addressed them before turning back, “Let’s get you back to your room.”  
“I’m sorry.” He’d been told not to hurt them and he’d done it anyway, that was wrong.  
“No, you’re not in any trouble, that was his fault. He took things too far.”

The Soldier frowned, confused, “But you said don’t hurt them?”  
“No, I said try not to kill them, there’s a bit of a difference there. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine, you didn’t do any permanent damage,” His handler gave him a reassuring pat on the back, “You should be proud, you’re still the very best we have.”  
He considered that, it had been four on one and he’d held his own without much trouble, he _was_ that good.

They reached his room, “Shower and relax for a bit, I’ll be back later.”  
Something in his tone was different, catching the Soldier’s attention but he didn’t know why. He shook off the feeling, it was probably nothing, and showered as instructed.  
The waiting part was boring, as always, so he decided to play cards for a bit to pass the time.

He got bored with solitaire pretty quickly, there were only so many games you could play so many times, and tried to build a card house, just for variety. He didn’t actually know how to build one so that didn’t go so well, once he tried to add a second level it all fell down. Having nothing better to do, he kept trying.  
It probably didn’t help that he had to manipulate the cards only right handed, a light touch was impossible with the slick metal fingers.

*****

A while later, his Handler came back and a Doctor was with him. The Doctor didn’t wear glasses, he was relieved to see that but didn’t understand why. Didn’t matter, no glasses was good.  
“The Doctor needs to check your shoulder, if that’s okay with you,” his Handler told him.  
“Sure,” he turned toward the Doctor.

Stepping up and manipulating his arm, the Doctor examined his shoulder thoroughly, prompting him to move it in all directions, “Any pain?”  
“No. A little tight thought here,” he indicated from his neck to along the back seam, “but it doesn’t actually hurt anymore.”  
“Good, excellent. I pronounce you completely healed then. You’re ready.”

Ready? “Ready for what? A mission?” Finally?  
“Well yes,” his Handler broke in, “but we don’t have one for you quite yet. In fact, it could be several months, you’re our elite specialist, we won’t be squandering your talents on menial tasks.”  
“I don’t mind,” waiting sucked, anything was better than that.

“Well technically you don’t have to wait,” the Doctor took back over, “we have developed a method for skipping ahead in time. If you’ll follow me?”  
The Soldier rose, and followed the Doctor into the other room, his Handler trailing along but clearly no longer running this show, to the strange cylinder in the corner that he’d never discerned the purpose of. A time machine?  
“This is a cryostasis chamber, it induces a state of suspended animation,” the Doctor clarified.

“How does it work?”  
“You just stand in there, and when I activate it you will essentially be flash frozen until we reverse the process.”  
“You’ve used this before? It’s been tested?”  
“Yes, it’s proven technology. We would never risk you to something untried, you’re far too valuable to us.”

“Does it hurt?”  
“It shouldn’t, it’s very fast.”  
“Will I dream?”  
“No, it will be as if no time at all has passed. And I guarantee you’ll be just fine.”

“How do you know for sure? Have I done this before?”  
“Yes, and you came through perfectly.”  
“I don’t remember.”  
“No, and you won’t this time either.”

This was all pretty weird, but... “Okay then.” He stepped through the open door, still nervous but also curious.  
The door was closed, greatly limiting his scope of vision, and the doctor did something with a panel he could no longer see.  
He reached up with his metal hand as the cold took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes they treat him well, he's their shiny new toy. That will eventually change.  
> Also the woman isn’t Nat, just some soldier. (I know somebody wondered)
> 
> I’ve decided against writing a defrosting/programming scene, we've already seen that in the MCU and I don't really have anything to add. So this concludes the intro, from here we'll skip ahead to a couple of his more atypical missions.


	3. Munich, West Germany, October 15, 1959

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fictionally) The Winter Soldier kills Stepan Bandera. When the tag line on that article is _"When Ukrainian Nationalism, Soviet Revenge, and the Ghost of Nazi Collaboration Met in Munich, 1959"_ that's just too perfect to pass up, so I just twisted this story around until it fit. (you can read that article [here](http://www.brightreview.co.uk/ARTICLE-Bandera.html) if you care)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don’t have many names to put to his victims, comic or mcu, so this one I just grabbed because I wanted one before the next chapter.

“Dress and meet us in the other room,” his Handler instructed.  
The Soldier changed into the clothes they’d laid out for the mission, a bit confused by them. This wasn’t his usual tac gear, these were civilian clothes. No leather, no mask, no goggles, and minimal weaponry. Must be a special mission of some sort then? He put them on, a simple button up shirt, dark pants, a light jacket, and his usual boots. He stashed the weapons, a pistol and two knives, and put the gloves in his pocket until later.  
Ready, he went to receive the details.

A photo was placed on the table. "This man is a traitor. As you may have guessed, this isn't your usual mission, we want him alive for questioning. Here is the address. You'll be dropped off a few blocks away and go on foot from there. He arrives home around seven, and his wife shortly after, so you'll need to work fast. A car will be waiting one block behind, get him to it."  
The Soldier frowned, "What if he has a tooth?" The cyanide tooth was common, everyone but him always carried one even if they weren't wearing it.  
"We've been told that shouldn't be an issue."

He nodded to acknowledge that, and the man continued, “We want you to enter the house and wait upstairs, in the bedroom. When he enters the room, subdue him and carry him out. There will be a gate in the back fence, use it to reach the retrieval team,” he handed over a strip of metal, “Use this to open the back door and go in through there.”  
The Soldier pocketed the metal, he’d understand that part when he got to it. Another of those things he knew but didn’t know how he knew, but as long as the knowledge was the to draw from, it didn’t really matter.

“Why don’t I just go in through the back yard?” If he was going into the house and out that way?  
“We want you to observe the area, we have reason to suspect he’s being watched but we don’t know by who. You’re not to engage anyone, just take notice and report when you come back. Understand?”  
“Yes,” Understand his instructions, yes. Understand why? No, but why wasn’t his problem.

“These agents will be driving you, go with them.”  
The Soldier noted the two were dressed similarly to the style he currently wore, not in uniform either. He followed them up to a waiting car and got in, them in the front and him in the back. A winding road led to a highway of some sort, and they headed west.  
“It’s a bit of a drive,” the man in the passenger seat informed him, “Do you mind if we play the radio?”  
“No, I like music.”

The man spun the dial, pausing briefly in places but clearly looking for something in particular. Some stations were mostly static, others came through in bursts. Finally he found one he liked and sat back, music filling the car.  
The Soldier sat back as well, relaxing and watching the scenery go by as the music surrounded him. It was unfamiliar, but he liked it.  
The men were silent too now, which was fine, preferable even.

This mission confused him, was it some sort of a test? This wasn’t what he did, his job had always been to eliminate targets, threats. Usually from a distance, though he had been sent in close before. But this, these clothes, taking someone captive alive, why was he even being used for this one at all? His drivers could probably handle it fine by themselves.  
But either they had a good reason to use him, or it was indeed a test. Either way, he had his orders, so he would carry them out. 

They passed through a city, then more open road and into an other city. Was this their city? It seemed that it was, the driver was taking turns, heading for somewhere in particular.  
The Soldier pulled out his gloves and put them on, ready whenever they arrived. These were full fingered gloves, not his favorite, but he understood the need to conceal his metal hand completely.  
A few more turns and the car came to a stop.

They let the Soldier out, then drove off to get into their next position. He paused for a short moment, looking around, taking in everything. It was nearly dark already and not many pedestrians were out. A woman across the street was briskly walking a large dog, a man entering a front door. Lights were on in most of the houses along his way, and he could smell food, people having dinner. A car passed, headlights briefly illuminating the scene, a man in a suit driving.  
He walked, it felt good to be above ground again. The breeze was fresh and welcome.

The weather was cool enough that his jacket and gloves didn’t stand out. Not cold, he’d have been fine without either, but understood the need to conceal his left arm. The few people he did see paid him no mind as he walked along the street, that was good.  
He studied everyone, not knowing who or what might be important, but was careful not to be obvious about it. It worried him that he _wasn’t_ spotting anything he deemed suspicious, but maybe there just wasn’t anything after all?

He’d arrived at the address, a house much like the others here.  
The Soldier again made sure nobody was looking his way, that nobody was even currently in sight, then slipped through the side gate and around the back.  
The door was locked, as expected, but he was able to easily open it with a thin strip of metal he’d been given for the job. There was just enough play in the latch to slide it between the door and the strike plate, and then he was inside.

The house was very nice, these people clearly had money. The furniture was all dark wood and leather, the hardware polished bright. The rug under his boots was deep and soft, keeping his steps completely silent. The Soldier didn't touch anything, the man was supposed to simply disappear.   
Oh, the man even had a television set. As tempting as that was, he didn’t dare risk the noise or the distraction, and there wasn’t any time to waste anyway. One more of those things he couldn’t remember, had he ever even watched one? Surely he had at some point, somewhere, but it was blank.

He’d gotten used to the blanks though, they weren’t as troublesome as they’d once been. If he needed to know something his Handler would make sure he was familiar with it, he was confident of that much. Besides, there were a lot of things he was sure he didn’t actually want to remember, like how he’d lost his arm and whatever else had been done to him.  
He made his way up the stairs, even those had carpet but it was much thinner here. They’d told him to wait upstairs in the bedroom with the balcony instead of grabbing him as soon as he came through the door. He didn’t ask why, they would have done their research, he just had to do as he’d been tasked.

A tall wardrobe stood against one wall, a space between it and the corner. A shadowed recess he could slip into when it was time, close to the balcony door, it would make a perfect place to strike from.  
There was an upholstered chair in the corner, the Soldier settled in it to wait, knowing he'd hear the key in the lock and have plenty of time to move. But until then, might as well be comfortable.  
He gazed out the balcony window as he waited, it was fully dark now and he could see stars. Not much else though, most of the surrounding houses were similarly tall, so they obstructed what view there might have otherwise been.

Downstairs, directly below him, he heard the click of a key and the soft creak of the door opening. He silently rose and moved into position. Barely detectable footsteps, probably inaudible to anyone else, came up the stairs.  
The man entered the room and turned on the light, loosening his tie with one hand as he walked straight to the balcony door. Yes, this was the man from the photo, good.  
They must have known this was his habit, and the Soldier had picked a perfect ambush position.

The Soldier slipped out behind his target and grabbed the man before he could step through the now open door, quickly locking his metal arm around him and covering his mouth to ward against screams with the other. He felt, rather than heard, the small crunch from the man's mouth. Fucking bastard had a tooth!  
There was no saving him, therefore no reason to save him. The Soldier picked him up and pitched him headfirst over the balcony rail, then silently fled the apartment the way he’d come. No need to check the body, if the fall didn't kill him he'd be dead seconds later anyway.

Over the back fence and on the next block he found the car waiting as promised, and slid into it.  
The driver turned with a scowl, "Where ‘s your mission, Soldier?"  
He shook his head. "He had a tooth, I was told that he wouldn't. He bit it as soon as I grabbed him."  
The driver nodded, expression giving nothing away, and drove them back to the base.

It was dark now, so there was little to see out the window once they were out of the city, but the Soldier looked anyway. The didn’t turn the mucic back on, he wished they would but didn’t ask. They were probably worried about the failure of the mission.  
Someone was going to pay for the bad intel, but it wasn't going to be him, so he didn't care. They should have made sure of their facts.

His Handler met them in the garage bay and walked with him, "Mission report."  
"Everything went according to plan, until he bit the tooth he was wearing. I threw him over the balcony then. They may think it was suicide, depends on which killed him first. I thought it was worth a try."  
"You did well. This is a great loss, but you're not to be blamed. And what did you observe?”

He considered, “Nothing that seemed threatening. A woman with a dog, a man driving. A few other pedestrians, but they seemed to be insignificant as well. Families indoors, eating or watching television. But a few of the houses were dark, and I don’t know who might have been inside them. One of them, two doors down, had three stars painted on the mailbox, I don’t know if that means anything.”  
“And in the target house itself? While you were inside?” his Handler prompted.  
“Nothing that stood out? It was very nice, looked expensive. I didn’t check for hidden things, I wasn’t told to.”

“No, you did right, we didn’t want the scene disturbed. And we already have the relevant documents, we just also wanted the man. But I suppose we’ll have to make do.”  
The Soldier waited, in case there were further questions or instructions. Apparently not.  
“You're dismissed to your room."


	4. Dallas, Texas, November 23, 1963

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, the assassination of JFK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The official records are a complete fucking mess, and this is a fictionalization anyway, so I just watched/ read a bunch of stuff and made my own version. (I did keep the Oswald and the book depository, if that makes you feel better.)  
> The book he reads is completely made up, but it wouldn’t surprise me if something really similar exists. The news coverage is also fictionalized.

He was sitting in a chair, in a room. He was pretty sure he’d been given a mission, that was protocol, but what? The usual clarity in these situations was missing, why?  
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but that didn’t really help.  
Well, the post-treatment shakes were mostly gone now, so he got up to get ready.

The Soldier frowned, confused. His gear and not been laid out for him as usual, or any weapons.   
Then a man came into the room, "Take a shower and put on whatever, we'll outfit you when we get there. This will be a long trip, but it’s one of vital importance."  
He just shrugged and obeyed, glad for instruction, they would tell him more when the time came. The shower made him feel far more alert, and his clothing was functional yet comfortable.

Not long after, the man, his Handler, returned and led him up to the airstrip.  
There was a plane waiting, idling and ready. Aside from himself and his Handler, there were only a man who seemed to be in charge, and the pilot. It was a cargo plane of sorts, only a few seats and no windows. Nobody told him where to sit so he chose a seat at random.

After they'd been in the air for some time, his Handler approached his seat. "This will be a long flight. Care for yourself as needed, and you will be briefed on your mission upon arrival."  
The Soldier nodded once, he was on his own then. He got up and wandered around the plane. There wasn’t much to even look at, they’d brought minimal gear with them. They were probably meeting another team there then, who would provide what was needed.

The only windows were in the front, near the Pilot. People usually didn't like it when he went near the Pilot, but he did anyway, just to look.  
There was nothing below but water, some ocean, as far as he could see. Ignoring the nervous Pilot, the Soldier wandered back to find something to eat. There was a cooler with some food and drinks, he helped himself. There were also a couple random books in a bag, he considered them. One appeared to be a math textbook of some sort, why the fuck? Boring. The other, judging by the cover, was a romance novel. Wondering which of the men with him owned it, he shrugged and took it, it would pass some time.

The book was stupid, Raul should have just let the bear eat Esmeralda instead of “heroically” wrestling it into submission, she was really annoying. Nobody should be that helpless, there was no excuse for that. Even the sex scenes were hard to read, graphic but in bizarrely worded ways with lots of flowers and explosions, and she immediately ended up pregnant _with triplets_ because of course she did. He was really starting to wonder if they’d brought this book along as a joke to fuck with him, because he couldn’t imagine anyone actually wanting to read it.  
It was a short book at least, so it didn’t take too long to finish. And it had killed some time even if it was fucking stupid, but he was still bored so he decided to take a nap.

He woke as they landed, not at an airport but on some hard packed grass strip that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. The landing had been a bit bumpier than he thought it probably should be, but they were down and stopped now. The got out, with what few bags they had. There was a car waiting.  
His Handler and the other man shook hands with the one who’d come for them, and they all got in the car. It was only a short drive from the landing strip to the building they would be staying in.

The Soldier looked around. They were at a temporary base, a low and unremarkable building. It was warm here, at least compared to where they’d come from. Wherever "here" was. They entered, it consisted of a main room, and a couple side rooms judging by the doors. Some windows along one wall. His Handler was now talking with a pair of officials there, finalizing the plans. There were maps involved, spread on a table. The Soldier paid no attention, the rest of the plans didn't matter to him. They'd give him his instructions soon.  
He stayed by the windows as he waited, looking outside. There was no snow here, things were still green. Or maybe they were always green here?

There wasn't much to see though, this base was isolated, as they tended to be. A television sat in one corner, but it was turned off.  
He was more surprised that he was being allowed to remain in the open with these strangers, his arm wasn’t even hidden. Most of the time when others were present he was kept aside, these men must be very high ranking.  
He was somewhat curious, but still didn’t bother to listen. There was a motorcycle parked just outside, he hoped the plan included riding it. He always preferred it when they sent him out on his own, instead of with escorts. He worked best alone.

Finally, his Handler called him over, it was his turn. They had a very detailed map, that was good, his directions should be easy to understand and follow.  
"They really didn't want to use you for this, but we have to make absolutely certain that the job is done. You're backup here, understand?”  
The Soldier scowled, he didn't like it, but nodded. He didn't need backup!  
"Because of the high visibility, you will be going in essentially unarmed. A rifle has been placed here," he pointed to an area that indicated decorative vegetation, "and it will be loaded. Place it inside your provided clothing however you feel it will be best concealed and make your way to the walkthrough under this bridge.” 

"Our other guy will be positioned here in this building," he pointed to a place on the map, "and will shoot when the car comes around this curve." He traced the route with his finger. "You will be stationed here," he pointed again, "at this underpass. High visibility, poor cover, and the chance of civilians approaching at any time. Do not engage civilians unless you have absolutely no choice, we want you to be as invisible as possible."  
Broad daylight, on the ground, and with no cover?  
The Handler gave him a stern look, "Now do you understand why you're the backup?"  
He nodded, it made sense now.

“Now this is the target,” he pointed to a photo of a smiling man dressed in a suit, “He will not be alone in the car but the others are not our concern. The car is scheduled to pass thorough your designated location at 12:30 this afternoon. The driver is known to be punctual but we want you in position a bit early in case there are any last minute changes or other unforseen things. Do you understand?”  
A distinctive face, easy to remember, “Yes.”

"Good. Don't shoot unless you have to, but if the car makes it to this point right here," he pointed top the map again, "then he loses his angle and you need to take the shot. This has to be done, it's of critical importance. Do you understand?"  
The Soldier nodded again.  
"Good. Now, we are here,” he indicated a spot a distance away, “Park the motorcycle," he pointed yet again, "somewhere around here. When it's done, one way or the other, leave the gun where you found it and get back to this point. Try not to draw attention, but don't let anyone stop you if it comes to that. Your clothing has been laid out, go get ready."

The Soldier entered the side room he’d been pointed to and paused in confusion, the clothes were very atypical. Waiting for him was a dark zippered jumpsuit like a repairman might wear, a plain wristwatch, and large sunglasses. He didn't even get his goggles? Okay.  
The Soldier dressed. The jumpsuit was a bit large, probably on purpose so he'd have room to hide the gun, but worn and soft.  
This clothing would offer no protection, he would have to be careful. At least the long sleeves would cover his arm, and they'd included some gloves, but not his usual ones.

Dressed and back in the room, he tugged at a strand of his hair, it was too long.   
"No, it's fine,” his Handler reassured him, "the length is very suitable for this job. You'll see. And keep both gloves on, I know you sometimes prefer to shoot without them but we can't risk prints if the gun is found before the retrieval team can recover it. Keep the glasses on too, if you can, but remove them if you need to."  
The gloves were very thin leather and fit well, he could manage just fine with them, and were a pale tan color that was probably supposed to pass for bare skin at a distance. He tried on the glasses, they weren't too dark, shouldn't be a problem.

His weapons for the mission had always been laid out with his clothes. He was used to being heavily armed anytime he was sent out, but all he had now was a boot knife. No guns, no leather, his face mostly exposed, it all felt very strange. _And_ he was the backup too.  
But at least he did get to ride the motorcycle, and was being sent out on his own.  
“You have your instructions,” his Handler dismissed him, tossing him a key, “Go.”

*****

Being dressed this way felt somehow freer, he was enjoying the wind tugging at his hair as he headed down the road. What if he just kept on going?  
But of course he wouldn't do that.  
The Soldier rode, first through mostly open country, then the outskirts, and made his way deep into the city, being careful as always to obey traffic laws and speed limits.

The streets were still wet from an earlier rain, and steam rose from the dark asphalt. The sun hadn’t reached it’s peak yet, but the day was already warming.  
The Soldier hadn't been in populated areas much that he could recall, so he tried to take in all the sights as he drove. Cars were everywhere. This was a large city he was in, and a busy one, the streets an almost confusing tangle, knotting around on themselves. He was glad for the clear directions he’d been given, and was able to find the area he’d been instructed to park in without much trouble.

Parking was the easy part. The lot was already filling, but it wasn't hard to find a spot for the motorcycle very close to where he needed to be.  
Leaving the bike, he climbed the embankment and walked across the triple railroad tracks to the patch of bushes and small trees that decorated the other side. He needed to find a position, but people were steadily using the underpass, gathering in the park.  
He was early, he could wait a bit. So, after stealthily checking that the gun was indeed there, he checked the time and sat down on the slope in the shadows to watched the people while he waited.

The sun was inviting, but he stayed in the shade. The first thing he noted was that a percentage of the men did indeed have longer hair, his handler had been correct as always. Many had short hair as well. There was a lot of variety in the way the pedestrians were clothed, everything from plain suits to bright colors and patterns. The majority seemed somewhat dressy, but there were enough in working class clothes that he wouldn’t stand out. They were gathering along both sides of the street, coming from all directions, the crowd was steadily growing larger.

It wasn't hard for him top pick out the other sniper's location, high in the building across the way. He had a good vantage point, if he couldn't make the shot he needed to be retired. But getting out of the building undetected, that would be very hard if not impossible, or maybe the man had been given a tooth. He understood now why they'd stationed him over here, even if it was in the open.  
He hoped the sniper could make the shot, because even extracting himself from this point would pose a challenge with all these witnesses.

*****

The number of people using the underpass had slowed to a trickle, the Soldier checked his watch again and saw that the time was getting close. He retrieved the rifle and, as stealthy as possible, unzipped his jumpsuit far enough to slide it down and into his pants leg. He left it partially unzipped since he’d seen a few others do the same, and crossed his arms to hold it in place with his metal elbow and flesh hand.  
Moving carefully to hide the gun along his leg, he made his way to the walkthrough and into position. There were some shadows at least, but not nearly enough to make him feel comfortable. He unzipped the jumpsuit farther, holding it closed with his arms but making sure he’d be able to draw the gun very quickly if he needed to.

He was hyper focused now, but attempting to keep his stance relaxed and casual. A woman with a small child hurried past him, but didn’t even glance his way. A pair of men in suits did the same.  
The Soldier understood his disguise, by appearing lower class he was rendered virtually invisible to most people, not worth their notice.   
Checking his watch again, it was time, he slid his right hand into his jumpsuit, on the gun, ready.

Cheers went up and he straightened, abandoning his projected nonchalance, watching intently with the rest of the crowd as the target came around the bend and into sight.  
What kind of high profile idiot rode around in a car with no top? Who was this guy? Popular, judging by the reactions. He was just asking to be shot! There were four people in the car, but he only cared about the target, who was smiling and waving to the crowd. Some people really had no sense at all, it seemed.

A shot sounded, a _miss_ , and some in the people looked around in confusion. Civilians, they didn’t recognize the sound for what it was. A few looked to the sky, as if expecting to see fireworks. The Soldier rolled his eyes but shifted his hands, ready to draw if necessary. The car continued it’s languid route, so far unconcerned.  
Another shot, the primary sniper had missed again! A few the crowd now grew agitated, some of them seeming to slowly catch on. 

The Soldier swore, the sniper was running out of room fast and so far had failed to complete the mission. This location was very far from secure, mere shadows offering his only cover, and anyone could choose to walk through here at any time. But he had a job to do, and the target was fast approaching the final point. The Soldier drew his gun and aimed, it would all be decided in the next few seconds.   
The sniper managed to wing the target, causing him to lower his head. But that was okay.  
How was this even guy missing from that position? It was ideal! 

Only mere feet remained now, once around the bend he’d be out of the other’s range completely. The Soldier held his aim dead center on the target's head.  
And time was up. He fired, realizing the other had fired a split second before him, finally hitting the target but not fatally. His own shot, knocked off center by the other's impact, would still be fatal. No one could lose that much brain matter and survive, the job was done.

The car accelerated toward him, fast toward the other side of the very underpass he was hiding in. The Soldier swore and dropped flat, using the railing and deeper shadows for what slight cover they offered, listening as the car and its escorts passes him by.  
He had to move _now_ , while the scene was still in chaos, before anyone though to start detaining bystanders.

While still on the ground and hopefully beneath notice, the Soldier slipped the rifle back down his leg, then stood and climbed quickly but carefully back up the embankment. He glanced down, the target's car was turning a corner, and now out of sight. Most of the escort seemed to still be with it, though a couple police cars remained in the park below. Atop the rise, he stashed his gun back in the same vegetation, pushing it deep to hopefully avoid detection.  
Hurrying back to the lot, he retrieved his bike, and returned to the base point, mission complete.

*****

The other officials were still there when he got back and he still ignored them, addressing his Handler, “It’s done. So did I change the world?”  
“Indeed you have, well done, Soldier. We truly couldn’t have done it without you.”  
He went to his room and changed back into his regular clothes, he wasn’t really a fan of the jumpsuit, then rejoined them in the main room.

The television was on now, but without sound. They were replaying the car ride, cut back and forth with interludes of serious looking people, news people.   
The Soldier watched transfixed, he’d never seen his work on television before! Even without sound he knew when the other shots were fired, he’d been there, and could see some of the crowd react, looking fore the source of the noise but clearly not feeling in an real danger. Then the final two that hit, the other’s and his almost simultaneously, and the camera jerked, the footage jumpy now. 

It played again and again, and he watched each and every one. They were cycling through footage from every camera angle they’re been able to acquire, some good and some poor. Only two showed the Soldier’s position at all, and neither captured his shot.  
It wouldn’t have mattered much if they had, he wouldn’t be found, but it was still better that they’d missed his part in the operation entirely.  
"Christ he's good,” one of the other men commented reverently, “Even knowing exactly where he's standing I barely notice him at all, and then he's just gone, like a ghost. If you ever want to sell him..."

“The Asset is not for sale.”  
“Okay, but if you’d ever consider a transfer... He’s extremely talented and we could certainly make good use of him.”  
“He’s not for sale or trade,” his Handler repeated firmly, and the other man held up his hands in supplication, dropping the subject.

The Soldier was still watching the footage, “Who was that man?” he asked his Handler, the news was making a very big deal out of this particular dead guy.  
“A politician. A threat to the world that needed to be eliminated, that’s all you need to know.”  
He nodded. Curiosity was never really encouraged, details weren’t his concern. He was to complete his missions, whatever they might be, and that was all.

Then something new on the tv, police were leading a man, arresting him. Was that the other sniper?  
“Shit!” the man in charge said, and immediately went to the telephone, calling someone.  
Interested, the Soldier studied the footage, could this be his next target? An ordinary looking man, nothing about him really stood out. Where were they taking him?

He continued watching the muted tv, but it had gone back to the replays now.  
More conversations, and his handler came over to him, “Okay we’re meeting with another team soon and it’s better if they don’t see you,” he held out some pills, “Take these, you’re probably due for them, and grab some food and whatever you need for a while and wait in the other room until I come for you. Do you understand?”  
“Yes.”

*****

The Soldier sat on the bed, bored without anything to look at but the blank white walls. The pills were kicking in though, making the waiting easier.  
There was a small table in here, he’d piled what provisions he’d gathered on it but didn’t want anything yet. Was he going to be backup for this new team as well? Maybe not, if they didn’t even want him meeting them.  
There wasn’t even a window in here, it was a very boring room. A window would have been nice.

As far as he knew he was on standby now, they might or might not need him again before they headed back home.  
He didn't pay much attention to the voices he could hear through his door, it never concerned him until it did. It sounded like there were several more people out there though, he guessed four or five.  
Finally the door opened, and he looked up expectantly as his Handler entered his room, "As you may have already guessed, the other sniper was captured, he did make it out but they caught him anyway. We can't leave until that's been resolved, so we're waiting."

"Am I killing him?" The man really did deserve to be eliminated for missing those easy shots.  
"It doesn't look like you'll have a chance, they're holding him in a basement and under heavy guard. Our current plan is to send in a low level agent in with a gun and hope he gets lucky. If so, we go home, if not we'll just have to see."  
Low level agents were ignorant and disposable, the Soldier nodded.

He helped himself to some of his snacks, and considered a nap to pass the time, but he wasn’t tired. Talk and planning continued on the other side of the door without him. He searched his room, finding a deck of cards in the drawer of the small table, and sat on his bed to play some solitaire.  
After two terrible games, he got suspicious and counted the cards, discovering that three were missing. That sucked.  
There was literally nothing else to do in this room.

Later, once the other team left he was allowed back into the main room, where the tv was still playing and still without sound. That was much better, entertaining. They were now reporting another dead person, not the other sniper though, someone he’d never seen. He knew hadn’t killed this man so it must have been the other sniper before they caught him, or possibly unrelated.  
Then film of the lady who’d also been in that car, now with some other man. It looked like some sort of official thing, but without sound he couldn’t even really guess. She still had blood on her clothes.  
He watched for hours longer, then went to bed when it became very clear that they no longer had anything new to show.

*****

The next day, word came in. It was officially over now, the sniper was dead, the latest plan had worked. That agent had been captured too, but he didn't know anything of importance so it wasn't worth the effort to kill him. Why hadn’t he had a tooth? Maybe they didn’t use them here?  
The other officials who had been there were gone too now, along with all signs of the maps and other intel.  
The motorcycle was also gone, but they’d left a car.

The other sniper had been credited with the primary kill. The Soldier didn’t like that very much, he took pride in his work and his skills, but understood that it was probably better this way. A dead man was a closed book.  
It was a short drive back to the airstrip, where the pilot was waiting and ready.   
As they boarded the plane to head home, his handler tossed him a bag with several new books, a reward. The Soldier smiled.


	5. 70's part 1- Mission gone wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a mission goes every possible kind of wrong, and the Soldier winds up all alone on the streets of New York City

The Soldier was almost always the leader in missions, if he wasn't sent out alone. He always had his orders, and reported back to the Handler when it was over. His Handler had never been in the field with him before, but now here he was in the transport vehicle, with only two other agents, one who was driving. There were no windows in the back part.  
The Handler was wearing a suit, the others had simple zippered jackets and a single pistol each in a belt holster, none had armor.  
The Soldier wore a plain black jacket with sleeves and full gloves, the one they used when they wanted his arm covered, similar to what the others wore, and his goggles and mask. He was armed with a few pistols and knives, but no long range weapon.

At a word from the Handler, the vehicle pulled over. There was a building, it looked like probably some sort of warehouse, at the end of the block.  
The Handler turned to the Soldier, "Our meeting is in there. Get inside and find a high position, don't be seen, and don't act unless I instruct you to."  
The Soldier just nodded, and slipped out of the vehicle and away, using the shadows but moving in a way that shouldn't draw attention. He knew they'd give him a few minutes to find his position before they followed.

Using a fire escape, he entered an upper window. It had been locked, but most of those kind would still open if you applied pressure just right, and it did. There was no real upper floor, just open rafters and beams. An area on one end had been partially decked, and was piled with very dusty things. It was about a fifteen foot drop to the floor, but he knew that was fine, if he needed to drop down.  
There were a few men on the floor, and they were armed, but none of them looked up. Most people, anywhere, never looked up.  
He moved over, away from the window and closer to the people, perching on a beam and waiting. The goggles were too dark for the poor lighting so he took them off, resting them on the beam.

A man in a suit walked into view, heading for the door, flanked by armed men.   
His Handler entered with the others following, and they exchanged salutes. The new man gestured to the small table practically under the Soldier's perch, and the suited men sat while the others stood stiffly. The other people who'd been walking around the floor all filed out, leaving them alone. A private meeting then.  
There was a radio on the table, the man turned it on and turned the volume up, a cheap but very effective anti-listening device. The Soldier could see them talking, but couldn't make out any words.

The Soldier waited, completely unmoving.   
Negotiations didn't seem to be going well, the faces were shouting, and the radio was turned up even more as the volume of the men grew.  
Suddenly the guns came up, both sides frozen in a standoff. The Soldier stealthily drew a pair of pistols, ready if he was needed but waiting, wishing he had his rifle instead.

The other's men fired first, dropping both the backup guys, while his Handler dived to the floor. The table tipped and the radio fell, cracking into silence on the concrete.  
"Soldier!" The Handler was alone, all guns trained on him. Defend the Handler.  
The Soldier jumped, dropping with guns ready where the table had been, just as one of the men fired.

The bullet caught him in the side as he landed, meant for his Handler, the surprise making him fall to his knees. He'd been shot! He shot the man who'd shot him, a perfect head shot, one down. Trying to ignore the pain, still kneeling, he shot the next one who was aiming for him, the impact luckily throwing off the man's aim, and the bullet whined past his ear close enough to feel the breeze.  
His handler was still behind him, one more and the suited man to go. Another bullet went past him, tugging his sleeve but not touching him.

He could feel the blood running down, gluing his shirt to his side. How bad was it? He had no idea, and couldn't stop to check.  
A light touch on his calf, his Handler.  
The other men threw something, a small hissing cylinder, pulling on some sort of portable masks. Gas then, not a grenade. His mask had a filter, probably a better one than theirs, but whatever it was made his eyes burn. They knew who he was then, and were trying to stop him at any cost.

He had to get his Handler out of here, as quickly as possible, that was the mission now, protect his Handler.  
The Soldier shot the last guard, and the suited man. He didn’t need clear vision at this range, they’d been fools to think the gas would stop him. Or maybe they just didn’t know he had a filter.  
Turning quickly, the Soldier's eyes met the blank dead stare of his Handler, one of those shots hadn't been meant for him, hadn't been a miss.

Now what? He had no instructions, he didn't know what to do! He dropped his guns, sitting back on his feet and pressing his hand to the bullet hole. His blood was hot and sticky, coating his gloved hand. He pressed harder, trying to make it stop, rocking himself mindlessly.  
And he was still bleeding too much, and all alone now.  
He couldn't stay here though. If he could walk? Still holding his side, he staggered to his feet and made his way unsteadily to the door.

There was no one right outside, he discarded the mask as he stepped into the open air. He picked a direction at random and started walking, trying to use the shadows. There were few people walking the streets and most ignored him completely. He probably looked drunk, and hopefully the all black clothes and gloves didn't show the blood well. It was near dusk and the shadows were deep and long, embracing him.  
An alley, deep and cluttered, on his right. He had to stop, he had to try to bandage his wound.  
It was empty. He chose a spot where he'd be out of sight from the street, and sank down against the dirty brick wall.

The Soldier unzipped his jacket, pulling up his t-shirt to check the bullet hole. _Holes_ actually, he hadn't even realized there was an exit wound on his back. Too much pain to distinguish it. Well at least the bullet wasn't still in him, that was probably good.  
He needed to wrap it, but with what? Nothing from this alley, that was for sure.  
Seeing no other option, the Soldier carefully took off the jacket, setting it on the cleanest spot available, and painfully peeled off his bloody t-shirt. It _had_ been clean, at least.

Closer inspection showed that the bleeding had slowed a lot. That was a good sign, but he still needed to bandage it. He tore part of the shirt into strips and used the remainder to pad the holes, wrapping his torso tightly. Stiff from pain, he got his arms back into the sleeves and zipped the jacket back over his bare chest.  
Getting gut shot was one of the most dangerous, he knew this. How bad was it? He didn't know enough about anatomy to even guess, so he'd just have to wait and see.  
He'd lost a lot of blood too, but if he'd gotten this far then it probably wasn't too much.

Now what? Return to base, except he had no idea where it even was, he didn't even know where _he_ was. Await orders, but his handler was dead, there was nobody to give his orders. The nearest known Hydra location was the one he'd fled, going back there wasn't an option. It was now night, and he was lost.  
His current position seemed fairly secure, out of sight. He would remain for a while.  
Curling up awkwardly on his good side on the ground in the filthy alley, the Soldier tried to rest.

*****

Somehow he slept, because the light had completely changed when he opened his eyes, it was early morning.  
Moving carefully, his entire side was stiff and painful, deeply painful, but the rest seemed to have done him a lot of good overall. He slowly sat up, and when that was okay, stood.  
First step, find some clothes that weren't all bloody, it had dried and crusted. Or at least something to cover it up. He also needed to check his wound, but the odds seemed in his favor so far.  
He made his way out of the alley, back to the street.

There was a gas station at the end of the block, those kind usually had the bathrooms in the back and out of sight.   
He passed a bus stop, a light jacket lay forgotten on the bench, he grabbed it and carried it at his side, kept walking. It covered most of the blood, and hid his metal hand. When had he taken off the gloves? Maybe last night? He didn't remember. They were long gone though.  
The reached the gas station, and slipped around into the thankfully unlocked bathroom, locking the door behind him.

There was a large mirror over the sink, he paused for a minute to stare into it.  
His reflection didn't feel like his own, his face unfamiliar. His hair too long, his clothes bloody, and his metal hand, his eyes... he didn't want to look into his eyes, didn't meet them. But this was him? The reflection moved when he did.  
Uncomfortable, he turned his back to it and checked the rest of the small room.

There were a couple spare jumpsuits hanging on the far wall, although the bay doors out front had been closed, this was probably also a repair shop. He could just change clothes, that was luck.  
He stripped carefully, hanging his new jacket aside and out of the way first. His boots were fine, a little blood but nothing he couldn't wash off. The top of his left sock was bloody, where it'd run down his leg, but he could live with that and it wouldn't show.  
He took off his current pants, peeling them where they were glued to his skin with dried blood, and dropped them on the floor.

His underwear were almost completely blood soaked, they'd caught a lot of it. He could try to wash them, but there was no way to dry them... he dropped them on the floor as well.  
Now for the bandage, then he'd deal with washing off all the blood as best he could.  
His shirt had been so bloody that he couldn't really tell how much of it was from after he'd used it as a bandage, but at least it looked dried now. 

The Soldier unwrapped his wound, then brought the pads to his face and sniffed them. He smelled nothing but blood, that was good. The bad kind of gut shot smelled bad. The wound itself, the front one anyway, looked okay. It had scabbed over and wasn't open anymore, but still hurt. He didn't try to twist around to look at his back, just examined that hole gently with his fingers, and it seemed about the same.  
Now to get clean. He looked at the paper towel dispenser, then down at the blood all down his side. He ripped off the former right sleeve of his ruined jacket and used that instead, with the hand soap that was provided. Not the best, but durable enough to scrub with. He used the paper towels to clean the wounds though, and then to mostly dry off.

There were two jumpsuits, one was clearly too short for him so he grabbed the other. It was a little loose on him but that was fine. It was also short sleeved, but he had the new jacket. Monogrammed across one breast pocket was the name Henry. He zipped it up. He was used to tight or properly fitting clothing, this loose garment and lack of any underwear felt strange, but it was all he had. His old bloody clothes he balled up and buried deep in the garbage can. Someone would probably find them, but hopefully not soon.  
He washed his hands again, then cupping them, drank from the tap.   
He put his boots and jacket back on and slipped away without looking at the mirror again.

The Soldier needed food. But it was still very early, and he didn't have any money.  
He needed his medication too, but had no means of getting that. Food he could probably manage though.  
He found a hotdog cart, closed and locked up. He broke the lock carefully, trying not to damage anything else, and took unopened packages of hotdogs and buns, and a paper bag to carry them in.

Finding another deserted alley, there seemed no shortage of those, he concealed himself and ate some of his stolen food. Food was important for healing, how did he know that? Had he maybe been shot before, and just didn’t remember? There was so much he didn’t remember, it was possible.  
He didn’t have scars that would prove it, but he was aware that his scars, aside from the ones on his shoulder, faded out with time. If a mission was long enough, he could see the progress.

Were they looking for him? If so, from which side of that fight? He didn’t know anyone by sight but his deceased Handler, so how would he even know who came for him?   
And the others wanted him dead, best to try to avoid them all until he could come up with some sort of strategy.  
He couldn’t hide in an alley all day, so he got up and started walking.

On the streets of New York

He walked on deliberately, putting more distance between himself and the place he'd fled from. Once a distance away he started taking turns seemingly at random, it was almost like he was being guided to somewhere in particular, but he didn't know where. That worried him, because he didn’t understand it. He’d never been here before!  
But he didn't know what else to do, there was no one to tell him so he walked, keeping his left hand in his pocket. Keeping that arm still helped the pain in his side anyway.

He observed the people around him without being obvious about it, they seemed to deliberately ignore each other for the most part which made it easier. A lot of the men had longer hair, and though most seemed to favor tightly fitted clothing, his attire didn’t make him stand out. Good. He’d never really been meant to blend in, couldn’t with his arm, but he’d have to try his best.  
It was also possible, with no survivors from either side, that nobody even knew he was missing yet. The men who’d left before it started, if they came back, hadn’t seen him.

Walking through this city was making his head hurt.  
It felt almost familiar, even though he knew he'd never been here before. If he went in that direction... He didn't know, but he _almost_ knew? He had to follow that feeling.  
But when he started feeling this way he was supposed to ask for his medication to make it stop. He didn't have that option this time, and it felt too real, was getting too real. Or unreal?  
The further he walked, the more things seemed familiar, but not. The _wrongness_ hurt, he wanted it to _stop_.

He hadn't been briefed on this location at all, he knew that much. On his mission, yes, but nothing else. They hadn't expected him to need to know anything else.  
 _Almost_ flashes of things, like unseen insects bouncing off a window, kept separate and unknown. Disconnected fragments of images, but it was getting worse, and fast.  
Could it be memories? But it couldn't be of course, not really... could it? 

Had he had a mission here, was that why he thought he remembered things? He knew he couldn't remember all of his missions, so that was plausible. He needed his meds!  
His bullet wounds still throbbed, but he'd gotten used to it, was able to ignore it now.  
The Soldier decided to play a game. He would think of what he thought he should find in places, as many details as he could come up with, and then see if the reality matched what he thought he knew. That would prove if his “memories” were real, or not.

To start, this block, at the end, a small laundry. Old clanky machines, and a floor that was never really clean. Peeling blue paint on the walls? No, _green_ paint. He walked to it.   
Wrong, completely wrong, it had been some sort of store, closed and empty now. The walls were yellow. No sign of washing machines, no green (or blue) paint, just skeletal sad clothing racks with scattered hangers littering the floor.  
What he'd _expected_ to see, could almost still see, superimposed, but it wasn't even close to a match.  
So far he was only proving that he was unreliable without his medication, but he tried again.

Three doors down, in that recess, was a small tobacco shop with colorful posters in the windows and a carved wooden Indian standing tall by the door. He walked to it.  
The recessed doors were there, but the display windows were gone and the doors was fitted with iron bars. No Indian, and it wasn't a tobacco shop, it was a liquor store. He didn't bother to go in, he could see enough through the door to know it was completely wrong inside.  
He wasn't willing to give up just yet, so one more try.

Okay. On the next block was Deb's Diner. Soda fountain, red booths along the wall of windows, and Deb with her obvious red dye job and blue uniform behind the counter. He could see it in his head, could almost smell the burgers.  
But when he got there... It was Deb's Diner! Making sure his metal arm was completely concealed in his pocket, he dared to enter.  
There were no booths, just tables and chairs. The chairs were blue. And no soda fountain, just a counter where scattered men sat reading the paper and eating. No dyed red Deb either, just a middle aged man refiling someone's coffee cup. How could he have been so wrong? Bad intel? But he’d gotten the name right!

"Just sit wherever," the man behind the counter told him, but the Soldier just shook his head and backed out the door. He would have liked at least some coffee, but he had no money anyway, and the place was far too disconcerting.  
Shit, he needed money. He would need more food and food cost money, he couldn't count on robbing unattended carts. He was hungry again, too used to regular meals, but he would wait until later to finish his stolen food.  
Maybe he'd figure out how to get money, he could probably manage to pickpocket someone if it came to that. He didn't like the idea of stealing, but didn't see a lot of options.

He resumed walking, was compelled to keep going.  
Even though he'd proven his delusions false, or at least _mostly_ false, it just wouldn't resolve, this strange doubled overlay he was seeing everything through.  
He should just stop and wait it out, wait for it to stop, if it would. Or wait for someone to find him? That would be the reasonable thing to do, right?

Still something urged him on, he needed to follow this _pull_ that was leading him to some unknown location, needed to know what lay there, unable to resist, or rest. So he kept going.  
Four more blocks, then a right, that was _home_.  
How could I be home? Why would he even think this? Nothing was making any sense! But he had to see, had to know.

Four blocks and a right ahead, the Soldier found himself staring at a vacant lot, there was nothing but weeds and scattered debris here.  
Yet still fragments flew through his head, too incomplete and brief to understand, fleeting and then gone. It almost felt like childhood memories. But he wasn't even American! This wasn't his past! It _couldn't_ be, that was impossible! Emotions he couldn't connect to anything tormented him.  
He stood there for too long, staring into a space that held nothing, while his mind played tricks on him.

Children ran, flickering in and out like ghosts. Children he knew, or had once known?   
The most frequent ghost has blond hair, but is the least consistent of them all, constantly changing. Echos in his head, voices he couldn't make out, it kept getting worse. He needed his medication to make it all _stop_.  
Part of him didn't want it to stop, hoped it was real, what if it was real? What if it was memory? He had none of his own, all stolen from him, why couldn't he pretend these were his, his past? It _wasn't_ , but... The flickering blond boy ran by again, and the Soldier followed him.

The Soldier wove through the streets, through the people on the sidewalks, following the flickering ghost he could barely keep track of always ahead of him. He couldn't catch up, couldn't get closer.  
His vision was still largely superimposed, places were there and then gone, but still he followed because he didn't know what else to do.   
His ghostly guide turned the corner at a drug store, but when the Soldier reached it, it was a deli and his guide was nowhere to be seen. Lost, again.

He walked on a bit further, but it all seemed strange now, unfamiliar. The weird overlay had dissipated, at least for now.  
Not knowing where to go, he stopped and ducked into an alley to eat again, half a dozen stolen hotdogs one after another, while a few pigeons hovered hopefully around his feet. He didn't share, but didn’t mind their company, they seemed real. Well, probably.  
Fed, he felt much better, and resumed walking. He came to a water fountain and took a long drink before moving on.

Somewhere ahead he could see water, so he headed for it, curious. It was a wide river, and there were people crossing it on a bridge not too far away. Deciding he would feel safer on the other side, he made his way over to the bridge and walked across, stopping for a bit in the middle to watch boats go by underneath him.  
This, stopping where he did, felt familiar, that feeling was back. Looking out he scanned the skylines but couldn’t say if he actually recognized them or not.  
Why was everything so confusing?

The Soldier crossed the bridge and kept walking, choosing his path at random but remaining very aware of his surroundings  
He would need a place to sleep again, probably another alley, but could afford to be a bit more choosy this time.  
It would be better to be concealed while sleeping, safer.

***** 

The soldier woke hungry, having finished off his stolen food the day before. He could deal with it for a while though. His world had somewhat stabilized, at least for now, and he was pretty sure that the things he was seeing were actually there. That was good.  
His noticed that side was stiff but hurt much less already, how was that even possible? Unless a lot more time had passed than he was aware of, that was very possible. He knew there were spans time in his life, missing days or more, much more, that he couldn't recall at all.

He needed to examine his wounds. It was early enough to probably find another deserted gas station bathroom, that would be best. Wound care first, food second.  
He passed a bus stop, deserted except for a man dozing slumped on a bench, his wallet sticking partially out of his back pocket. Acting instinctively, the Soldier smoothly grabbed it and pocketed it, kept walking. He’d examine the contents later when his location was more secure, it was probably better to keep moving.

He found a gas station, it was open but the bathrooms were in the back and unlocked. Not that a locked door posed much of an obstacle, but this was better because he was able to lock it behind him. Bullet holes first, he took off the jacket and unzipped the jumpsuit, holding it so it didn’t fall all the way to his feet.  
The wounds looked pretty good, the scabs were dry and tight. Unless there were complications he should heal quickly and well. Cleanliness was important, so he wiped down with some wet paper towels, best he could do under the circumstances.  
He redressed and checked the wallet, which unfortunately didn’t contain a lot of cash. He pocketed what there was, and put the wallet back in his pocket as well to dispose of later.

Now that his head seemed temporarily clearer (either he'd left areas he thought he knew, or the delusions has solidified to the point where he couldn't tell the difference anymore) the Soldier felt more relaxed.  
Time to buy some food, now that he had money. He paused to drop the wallet in the first mailbox he passed, then wondered why and how he knew to do that. Also, he'd stolen it very smoothly, had he ever done that before?  
There were no answers.

Ahead was a deli of some sort, wrapped sandwiches displayed in the window. That would be good, he needed foods he could eat with one hand unless he wanted to keep eating in alleys, so he went in.  
Nervous about interacting with anyone, he grabbed a sandwich at random and silently placed it on the counter, exchanging money with the bored looking boy behind it.  
Back on the street, he paused at a niche to hide his hand and unwrapped it enough to eat as he walked. It contained several types of cured meats, and was quite tasty and didn’t last long.

Just ahead, a newspaper balanced on the rim of a garbage can. He'd passed multiple paper vending boxes, but he... wasn't supposed to buy them? He wasn't sure why, but it had been strong enough that he hadn't even considered it, just walked past them all. But that one was just sitting there, someone had been in too much of a hurry to throw it away properly.  
He disposed of his trash and tucked it under his arm as he passed, unsure if he would even dare read it, and kept walking.  
A few more blocks, and he stopped. He would at least look at it.

Newspapers were difficult to manage with one hand, and he didn't dare use the other. The Soldier ended up placing it on a bench beside him, holding it down when the breeze tried to steal it away.  
The date at the top was a surprise, it felt very wrong but he couldn’t think of what it possibly should be instead. Was that really the date, could it be?  
But there it was printed on the page. He blinked a couple times, but it didn't change.

It had to be because he was missing his medication, they'd warned him how bad it could get. His mind was changing things, confused, maybe this wasn't even real.  
But if it wasn't real, no harm in reading it, right? If he was living in this delusion, maybe he could learn more about it. Did crazy even work that way? He had no idea, but now he was reading.  
New York City, America. That's where it said he was. As far as he knew, he'd never been here before.

Most of the paper made no sense to him. He could read it fine, but it was all about people and things he'd never heard of, and this single day's worth of information wasn't enough to process it all.  
There was a war going on in Vietnam, when had that happened? And a lot of protests about it. And something about Watergate tapes, but not what that even meant. He read it all though.  
Finished and giving up on understanding much of what he’d read, he threw the paper away properly this time, and resumed walking. There were a lot more people on the streets now, and so many cars, so many _kinds_ of cars. None were flying though.

That thought made him pause, _why_ did he think cars should fly? Of course that was impossible.  
People bustled around him, some hurrying along purposefully and others seeming almost directionless, drifting. He wasn't used to being around people, not this many, not for this long. There were too many to monitor, and too close.  
The Soldier searched for a place to get away from it all. He was going to have to take a break in an alley if nothing else presented itself soon, he needed to get away from all these people, at least for a while.

Ahead was an entrance to a park, there were a lot of people there too but also a lot of open space. He went in, these people were more relaxed, not moving purposefully like the ones on the streets. Some were running or biking, or playing frisbee. They dressed casually, some of the men shirtless.  
There were a lot of children too, that was good, their presence meant the occupants felt safe here.  
He made his way further in.

The park was a very welcome escape, especially once he was off the footpaths. The weather was warm and sunny, scattered people lay in the grass or on blankets, picnicking or just enjoying the day. Not too many people here though, and most were stationary.  
His jacket was too warm, he unzipped it but couldn't take it off, and he kept his metal hand hidden in the pocket. But the sun felt so nice on his skin, he wanted more. Well the jumpsuit was zippered, and as long as he kept his arm and shoulder covered...  
He walked further, seeking a sunny spot with even less people.

A small clearing looked inviting, the grass was short, but thick and soft as he sat down.  
He took his right arm out of the jacket, and pulled the left sleeve down far enough to cover his hand. If he had to move fast, he'd still have it on that shoulder. He lay back and unzipped the jumpsuit to his navel, spreading it open to let the sun hit his skin. After making double sure the metal and scars on his shoulder were covered, he stared up into the impossibly blue sky with a contented smile.  
He didn't sleep, but closed his eyes and basked.


End file.
